


Boys Will Be Girls

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Burlesque AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:54:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burlesque club!AU. He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before, so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry has looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of course, their table is the rowdiest in the club. It’s heavily laden with pints and neat little rows of shot glasses, a couple of pitchers of something fizzy [since it was on special offer] and surrounded by a gaggle of screeching first years who are a month into their university studies and  _still_ treating every night out like fresher’s week. Always as though it’s a competition to see who can vomit onto the pavement first. All of the lads are about tonight, in their sharp toed  _Topshop_  chelsea boots and suffocating skinny jeans. Make-believe rockstars in order to pull hipster birds and it usually works. Harry is the prettiest rockstar of the lot, with his choppy sweep of natural curls and clinging vintage t-shirt and he gets flaunted as their lucky charm.  

“Bet they’re gonna be fit as fuck, Hazza. Bet you’ll go and get some retro pussy too, with them fucking curls,” Harry’s room mate, Jack, slurs up against his ear, fair oilier than any eighteen year old should be. It’s whiskey that does it to him, makes him sound as though he should be chewing at a fat cigar. 

Harry giggles as he shrugs. Sweet nonchalance, like he doesn’t know just how charming he is. Still, he thinks of that famous Dita woman with her crimson smirk and waist so bloody tiny he could probably work one hand around it and he knows that he wouldn’t mind getting past her french knickers. Burlesque does things to Harry- it’s soft dangerous curves and taunting eyes. He’s not seen any in person before but he did pull some routines up on Youtube when they decided on checking out this club and had a reasonably good time watching a bleach blonde pin-up writhing in a clam. Hand shoved, most classily, down his pants throughout.  

“Supposed to start in five minutes! Get ready, boys!” A familiar Scottish voice announces from Harry’s left, and right on cue, all of the bulbs in the club dim right down until there are just two ice blue spot lights turned in on the stage and it’s veil of smoke.  

The light beams illuminate ostrich feather fans. Downy and vast, held in such a way that they perfectly obscure the somebody clutching them. The crowd hushes as one and Harry flexes his long-fingered grip around his pint, his eyes unmoving and intrigued. Some of his friends titter with boyish excitement and the same sort squirms in Harry’s belly. He’s already picturing teased, coiffed hair and shoulders bowing to reveal an endless cleavage.The belly squirming shifts, the eighteen year old’s hips follow it and he draws his lower lip in under his teeth, tasting the half a cigarette he had strolling up from campus.  

“You look like you could fuckin’ spontaneously come here and now, mate,” Jack whispers and then cackles- very nearly loud enough to blot out the first bar of the song starting up. 

Harry catches it, though, and instantly recognises it.  _Diamonds Are Forever_ , from that Bond film, but theArctic Monkey’scover. His boot starts going heel-to-toe against the tacky floor and his green eyes gleam. He sucks in a sweat-sodden breath, Alex Turner croons in his too-cool Northern twang and the fans begin to flutter- slowly slowly, like unfurling wings- until they drag right through the opaque air. When the feather-tips rest gently against the floor, everything is still shadows, but the spotlights start to spin. The feathers quiver once more and the lights explode into glittering shards. The flickering picks out a face, a neck with pretty tendons held taught, bird boned wrists fleshing out into biceps....a whole boy once they’ve settled back into something solid. 

He’s a vision of tousled hair over razor-edged cheek bones and the pattern of toned tummy muscles, two silver stars where Harry expected to see tits, and tiny shiny shorts. Harry feels the air go stiff around the table from the collective exhales of shock, and tries desperately to drag his eyes back to Jack. Or to the full pitcher a few inches away. He feels dizzy, brain splintering behind his eyes like the lights had been seconds before, and he wants to make some comment about _fucking needing a drink after that, Christ_  but it gets stuck in his throat. The boy on stage begins to roll his hips- moody in the blue lights. Harry’s thoughts slip more rapidly from where they ought to be. 

“Fuuucking hell!” Exclaims the Scot, ripping unceremoniously through the moment. The boy on stage blinks but doesn’t falter. “Is it fucking faggot night?” 

Harry winces and grazes his blunt nails against the bone of his arm but doesn’t utter anything other than a practically silent ‘shit’. He’s not that kind of boy at heart, but university’s been a strange beast. His mates here like him because he looks like a forgotten member of The Strokes, not because of any morals or intellect.  _God, god, god_ , his brain chants, puzzling it’s self back together, and Harry desperately tries to make his features read as passive. Anything that wont get him teased mercilessly for the next three years. 

“I think our Hazza’s gone into shock!” Jack smirks, his hand slapping against Harry’s back and snapping him out of his reverie.  

All Harry can think to do is laugh just as uproariously and drain his flat pint as though he’d been dying of thirst- “What the Hell is this about?” He hisses towards the centre of the table, once he’s gathered some feigned composure, “Should we get goin’ or?”  

“Nah man,” Someone argues, smacking their bottle against the table for emphasis, “I swear I’ve spent half of me student loan on all this fuckin’ drink tonight! Let’s get through this first- we don’t have to look at ‘im like, do we?”   

A collective cheer of agreement follows and drinks clink together sloppily across the table. Everybody’s attention swiftly switching from the show on the stage to the shots they’ve still got left to race through.  As raucous as before, they settle into the familiarity of downing and spilling and sniggering like kids in the playground. When things slow somewhat, Jack takes it upon himself to start chugging directly from a jug, the  _Sex on the Beach_ inside sloshing over his chin and button-up, and because of the round of the applause it earns, Harry doesn’t quite hear when the song fades from the indie cover into the original but he does catch the dancer’s moves becoming more elaborate. 

He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before: so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry  _has_  looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs. He blinks like the closing of a lens aperture, photographing what he can of the show to memory. Then he stares resolutely into his empty glass until his friends decide that it’s time they escaped. 

He’s especially quiet on their trek home, finding that he feels hollow if he attempts to bark out laughs or throw comments into the mix. His mates refuse to shut up about how it was  _the most disturbing thing they’d ever seen_ , how they were  _scarred_. Jack, the bloody comedian, insists that he’ll have to _watch all the fit lesbian action he can find on Redtube to purge his memory_ and everyone except Harry whoops. Harry, feeling defensive over the pretty pixie stranger, scowls and keeps to the shadows. Out of the way of any knowing eyes that might pry his true feelings from him. When two of the boys go to swing their arms around Harry’s shoulders and drag him into a football chant, he shrugs them off with a grunt, and everyone agrees that it’s post traumatic stress. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next week, Harry’s table is nowhere near as rowdy because he’s sat alone. Just him and a comforting Tuborg tucked between his huge hands. A lot less intoxicated, he sees what he and his friends failed to last week: the few drag queens perched on the couches towards the back of the bar; the copious very male couples and the poster up near the entrance that reads  _Every Friday!_   _Boylesque! Starring Erotique’s own Louis_. He can’t help the knot of guilt that winds around his intestines as he waits, hoping that they didn’t upset anybody last week; hoping [especially] that they didn’t upset Louis, who looked just as painfully pretty on the poster as Harry remembered. Delicate like a girl but undeniably all boy.  

“Waiting for Louis, dolly?” A voice booms from above Harry and he peers upwards to see a towering lavender beehive wig and Twiggy-inspired make up, a masculine jawline. The eyes watching him in return are the kindest Harry’s seen in a while and there’s a tempting cardboard tray of shots that resemble glow sticks being proffered to him. 

“Maybe,” He murmurs.  

“Aw pet, but he is precious. Go on, take one for free,” Says Beehive, extending a green tube to Harry, “And sit up a little straighter. Louis’ll be on a minute or two! Just you wait ‘til you see his outfit tonight! I died, child.” 

 Harry grins bashfully and promptly does as he’s told. Up from his slouch, he scrubs his knuckles through his hair and tries to shake his maudlin mood by downing the shot. It tastes like chemicals and apples and it’s a reassuring bolt of lightening down to the pit of his belly.  

“There we go, poppet. You look like a new man.” 

“Thanks- could I have another?” Harry fishes in his pocket for a couple of quid, but his coins are waved away and he’s presented with a red tube second time around.  

As the plastic cherry syrup slides down his throat, making his nose wrinkle up, the club is thrown into darkness and Harry knows what’s coming.  _Oh god_ , the voice in is head supplies excitedly, and he doesn’t have to mask his expression this time.  

“Here he is! I’ll leave you be!” Beehive whispers, giving Harry a squeeze on his bony shoulder and then tottering off on her heels. 

Again, there are just two spotlights trained on the stage and the room stills with crisp anticipation. Tonight has it’s differences though, because where there had been elaborate fans there are now the backs of two boys- dressed in khaki shirts and broader than Louis is, Harry’s sure. They start to click as the song pipes up, double to the left, double to the right, hips tipping in time, too. It’s so cheesy Harry almost winces, goes to bury his head in his hands but stops when he realises that both boys are laughing over the song [Aguilera’s  _Candyman_ , rather than something indie this week]; that their shoulders are clearly shaking. That’s amusing, that turns up the corners of Harry’s lips. One nudges the other with his elbow, chuckles helplessly against his shoulder, and then they fall apart. Their clicks becoming clapping as they present Louis to his waiting crowd. 

Louis, who is as upbeat and flirty as his track choice when he comes marching out onstage, his hand held against his quiff in salute of his rapt audience. He’s got this spangled sailor’s hat perched on his hair at a sassy angle, his lips are toffee apple red and Harry’s so thankful that doesn’t have to hide his appreciation tonight. He beams all big instead and gets to his feet to get a better look at the star; crows with his neighbors when Louis begins a shimmy. The movement is fluid through from his shoulders to his turned in toes and Louis pauses in that pose, with his small hands crossed demurely over his crotch. He flutters his lashes. 

“Thank you m’loves, you’ve done me proud,” He smiles and blows each khaki-clad boy a kiss before they back off stage. “How about a round of applause for Zayn and Li, guys? Excellent! Now, let me tell you people a story,” Louis swaps poses with a flick of his rather curvaceous behind and daintily rests one hand at his waist. He’s wearing hot pants and a white tee that scoops low beneath his collar bones. Striped suspenders which he snaps before he begins, “I met him out for dinner on a Friday night, he really got me working up an appetite. He had tattoos up and down his arm and there ain’t nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm. You know the kind, I mean, right?” 

After what Harry understands to be his introduction [and shit, but didn’t it punch at his heart like a fist] Louis doesn’t say another word. It’s his dancing tells the rest of his tale: each shy drop of his chin towards his chest, each flourish of his hand before he gives his plush backside a spank, the pouting of his glossy lips. To begin with, he skitters back from his crowd like a spooked kitten, though in no time at all he’s grinding and riding the air. He even unclips and tosses his suspenders; spinning in a sudden pirouette as they collide with the stage.  

Harry doesn’t want to acknowledge the twitch in his boxers when he witnesses that; doesn’t want to when Louis sinks to his knees and readjusts his hat, either. And then when the song fades into silence and Louis ends with a spectacular tugging off of his shirt to reveal  _Loose Lips Sink Ships_  scrawled over his chest, finger ‘shushing’ in front of his lips? Harry has to rush to purchase another drink.  

“Whiskey on the rocks, please,” He rasps, and Lavender Beehive serves him with a wise smirk.  

“You young ones, takes nothing at all does it?” She grins and reaches to ruffle her acrylic nails through Harry’s curls, “Now you wait ‘ere, you hear me? It’ll be worth it. “


	3. Chapter 3

After Louis’ performance, the bar becomes a regular night club. A couple of staff rearrange the tables and chairs so that there’s a dance floor and a dj booth lights up in the corner. The music isn’t Harry’s thing really- lots of electronic beats and Girls Aloud medleys, but his new drag queen friend shoots him warning glances every time he makes a move to leave. So he shrugs, and he orders more iced whiskey and at least drums his fingertips against the bar top when Duran Duran begins to play. The atmosphere is comfortable, anyway: a chilled drink with his own [maybe nearing filthy] thoughts, rather than his university friends and their constant efforts to one up Nikki Sixx.  

Three Jim Beams in and Harry has to rest his cheek in against the bar. Secretly, he’s somewhat of a light weight and the wood is cool, if a little sticky with beer rings. His curls slip forwards and he hums, muses briefly on how many of his mates would disown if they found out he’d visited  _Erotique_  again on Louis’ night. It’s probably telling that he wouldn’t much care if the number was two or ten.  

“Hey Astrid love, could I get my usual?” 

Harry knows that voice. He closes his eyes briefly and chews his lip as he reopens them, squinting past his curtain of hair. Indeed, Louis has hopped up on a stool a foot from his, dressed down in a t-shirt not to dissimilar to Harry’s and worn jeans, but still with scraps of stage make-up on his face. Sparkles brushed over his cheekbones; eyeshadow pressed like thumb prints below his eyes and stains from the red gloss which make his lips look bitten. Harry expects the boy’s usual to be something fruity and decorative, but it’s a foaming draught beer and a motherly pat to his wrist- 

“You did well tonight, dolly. Much cheerier than last week, too!” 

“You know how it goes.” Louis says, cryptic, but Astrid nods solemnly with one hand keeping her beehive in place. “Don’t worry though, you know. Never worry, Astrid. Got my Zayn and Liam if anything goes too wrong. They keep me in tea and cuddles.” 

Astrid clucks and Harry thinks of her, for a second, as some version of Mrs Weasley interpreted by Warhol. Then he sits up straight, fixes his hair and turns himself towards Louis- 

“I thought you were uh, like super good. Liked your hat, your hat was cool.”   

“Oh really honey?” Louis begins- a smile curving over his lips. It’s sudden but Harry knows it’s real because of the make-up dusted creases at the corners of his eyes, “I made that hat myself you know, took forever sticking them little bastard gems on but I feel like it added a certain-” Louis pauses, turns his head just so, and his smile is instantly a frown. “You’re one of those boys from last week. Those obnoxiously heterosexual ones.” He states. 

Harry gulps and feels a hotly ashamed flush rising up on his cheeks.  

“Shit, yeah, sort of. They’re my mates... like, but they’re tossers. Dicks, really. I should of said somethin’ at the time I know but like. Yeah. They’re just idiots,” Louis looks more understanding than Harry would of expected him to be. He continues on anyway, rubbing at the back of his neck and attempting to turn on some of that patented Styles charm, “Like, I came back though because I thought you were amazin’. At dancing. And things. Fucked ‘em off to come here, instead. To see you. Oh- and uh, I’m Harry by the way... or Hazza.”  

As Harry finishes up his bumbling and endearing speech, Louis reaches right across and thumbs cautiously against the jutting bone of Harry’s wrist, over the little smattering of etched ink there. From somewhere beyond the beer pumps, Astrid quietly sing-songs something which sounds suspiciously like ‘he had tattoos up and down his arm and there ain’t nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm’. Despite themselves, both boys quietly giggle.  

“Listen, Harry, Hazza, just shush maybe,” Louis suggests, and so Harry does. “You liked my hat, and you’ve gone all wonderfully pink, so you’re forgiven. Ask anyone, Louis Tomlinson can’t be arsed with grudges.” 

“Really?” Harry asks earnestly. 

“Really. Mostly. Anyway.” Louis’ blue eyes soften, “You wanna come find Zayn and Liam with me, so I can tell ‘em to stay out for the night?”  

They locate Zayn and Liam out front- Zayn smoking, Liam absently nuzzled to his side and fiddling about on his phone. They’re no longer in khaki and something about them is quite darling and domestic. They both smile warmly at Louis when he slips through the door towards them, and Harry’s pretty sure the smile is for him too. 

“Boys! This is Hazza- we met at the bar and we’re going to be hanging out tonight.” Louis flourishes his arm towards Harry, such a dancer about it, “He’s curly and I think Astrid’s given him the once over. So, it’s a splendid idea.”  

Harry blushes again and bows his head, eyeing his own shoes and pigeon toes with far more interest than they warrant. He wonders if Louis’ friends will question his decision, because Louis certainly doesn’t seem keen on wasting any time, but they don’t. Zayn raises his eyebrow some, but only for a split second. Then he nods, and reaches across to flick the tip of Louis’ nose- 

“Is that you’re way of saying you’d like to us to make ourselves scarce?” He laughs, all affection and smoke plumes.  

“Oh, would you?” Louis beams, lashes-a-flutter, “Well of course, I’d never demand it but if you were thinking of treating Liam! How sweet.”  

“You are a brat,” Liam chines in, but there’s nothing but love behind his tone and then the three of them are hugging. Squeezing and murmuring things like _be safe_  and  _ring if you need to_.  

So, Harry finds himself in Louis’ flat hovering by the kitchen sink. He’s somehow barefoot and all too aware that he’s never actually pulled a lad before, now that the oppertunity to do something more than watch Louis has presented it’s self. Louis is stood right beside him, and if Harry’s not mistaken, attempting to count Harry’s eyelashes. Harry’s made attempts to count the flecks of glitter shimmering over Louis’ cheekbones too, but it’s quite impossible.  

“Lots,” Louis says eventually, breath warm over Harry’s throat. “Lots of lashes. And you Hazza, are quieter than I’d like you to be. Is there a reason for it? Is it me? Is it you?” 

“Shit, sorry. It’s me, it’s uh.” 

“It’s your first time stood in a boy’s kitchen, Hazza? A boy that you’d like to fuck?” 

“Perhaps?” Harry gnaws on his thumb nail and shrugs- not liking how the feeling of insecurity sits in his bones. He doesn’t feel like a lucky charm in the slightest and it’s jarring.  

“Gosh, you’re not half as cool as you look,” Louis says, and then steps in until they’re touching, knocks Harry’s hand from his mouth and replaces it with his lips.  

The kiss becomes quite something. Harry hurts where he jams up against the edge of the countertop but finds that he very much doesn’t care once Louis’ tongue swipes past his lips; Louis knots one hand in Harry’s Pink Floyd t-shirt and tugs, up on his tip toes. He’s so small and Harry likes that, so he loops an arm around Louis’ waist, up under his t-shirt, to feel where it nips in. He has flawless warm skin and a thrum of energy beneath that. Harry clasps the narrow of his back and their kiss deepens.  

“Almost, Harry.” Louis whispers, once he’s bowed from it, “Almost, almost, hipster boy. Come with me?”

 Louis’ hand is small too, wrapped around Harry’s to lead him into his bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sit,” Louis commands, hand pressed to Harry’s tummy, and Harry obliges, backs onto Louis’ bed. “Good boy, stay there, kay?” He dips his thumbnail into Harry’s belly button, through the worn cotton of his shirt, and then disappears into another room.

Harry stays. Cuddling back into the mass of cushions and blankets that is Louis’ bed, with his eyes tracing all of the string light hung up across the room. A web of tiny blinking bulbs that highlight tacked up photos- of Louis, Zayn and Liam mostly, some Erotique posters and little mounds of clothes, CDs and old alcohol bottles- weeping candles wedged into the openings. Harry breathes it all in and remembers to switch off his phone [anything to keep his hands busy], ignoring that he has six missed calls from Jack. 

“Close your eyes, Hazza,” He hears, the words a breathy Marilyn Monroe rush from beyond the doorway and he hasn’t argued yet tonight so without question, his eyes slip shut.

There’s a barely-there weight in his lap then, limbs unfolding around him and those bloody perfectly tiny hands skidding up from his back to his nape, to his hair. They lace tightly, knuckles and curls, and Louis’ teeth proceed to snap at Harry’s bottom lip. He has fangs, Harry thinks, and a firefly glow burning through his eyelids. His chest clenches. 

“Eyes open now,” Louis urges, and Harry sees nothing but unfocused sweeps of thick glitter and shiny blue, before Louis kisses him again. 

More raw than their first, as though Louis’ intent is to bruise Harry’s bowed lips. Harry growls, finally, and gets his hand around the meat of Louis’ ass- almost saying ‘no, sweetheart, I don’t think so.’ He feels smoother fabric than denim cutting into the curved flesh and drags back, all saliva and panting, to get a look at Louis. Tiny shiny shorts and star pasties; guileless eyes staring back at him, a sharp face of subtle make up. 

“You look pretty,” Harry drawls, dumbstruck. He blinks sweat from his eyes so that the burlesque vision becomes even clearer. “You look so fucking pretty Louis, Christ.”

Louis ducks his chin to his chest and loosens his hands in Harry’s hair. For a flash of a second he seems unsure and Harry cups his cheeks and initiates the crush of their next kiss; licks his way into Louis’ mouth and is sure that he can feel the boy’s heartbeat in his tongue. His own is somewhere near his throat now and racing hard enough to choke him. It unlocks something, a hurry to get from tongues tangling to cocks and hands and damp skin colliding. 

“Less clothes,” Louis whines into the hot open wetness of Harry’s mouth, yanking the hem of Harry’s t-shirt out of the way and scratching his nails at the zipper of Harry’s jeans. The heel of his palm ruts against Harry’s crotch as he does so and Harry sees a cascade of light like dust motes. 

Harry nods and lifts Louis from his lap- tendons straining in his arms, dick straining at his jeans. Louis scrambles around in his bedside table once Harry’s set him back down, and the eighteen year old tears off all of his clothes with little care- t-shirt, jeans, and boxers unceremoniously lost to the floor. When Louis turns back around he exhales through his nose and swallows Harry whole with the blue pools of his eyes. There’s a square packet and a bottle of lube tucked in his left hand and his right daces up Harry’s arm- those tattoos of Harry’s beneath his curious fingertips. He rubs lightly over the iced gem inked not too far from his arm pit and uncaps the lube with is teeth, tears open the condom packet, too. Well practiced, Harry thinks. 

“Your cock is really big,” He states, quite bluntly, before slides the rubber over it and then squirts some of the lube over his palm and takes Harry’s erection in hand. 

He’s not really jacking Harry off, just slicking him up. His touch is lazy and languid but Harry finds himself coming undone beneath it, anyway. His green eyes blow out and he pulls so much of his lower lip into his mouth, his teeth almost touch his chin. Louis shakes his head and his hair reminds Harry of feathered fans. He’s bloody beautiful, he really is. As Harry watches, as memorized as he was a week ago, Louis starts to drag down his metallic hot pants. It takes some effort, considering they fit like a second skin, but Harry enjoys the way time slows right down.  

Once he’s unhooked the pants from his slender ankles Louis lets his fist go from around Harry’s dick and flips around in is lap, anchors his knees on either side of Harry’s thighs, spreading. His fingers wet with lube still, he just breathes in deep and presses one of them inside of himself. Lets Harry see. The pucker of his entrance; his finger pushing deep; the delicate pattern of is spine as he arches in on himself. Harry forgets that language exists and simply curls his hands around the swell of Louis’ lower back, where his butt begins- probably leaving light lilac bruises where he squeezes. Louis’ single finger becomes two, three, four, and his breathing becomes as ragged as Harry’s ever heard a girl mid-shag.  

“Need to fuck you know,” Harry croaks up against Louis’ neck and Louis nods with everything that he has left to give; twists around again so that he can nuzzle his face into Harry’s throat as he gets a hand around Harry’s hilt and lowers himself onto his cock.   

They fuck like animals and through the haze of thrusting and grinding and teeth scraping against salt-tainted flesh, Harry can’t shake all sorts of ridiculous cliches. Louis’ the tightest he’s ever felt, his best lay since the excitement of losing his virginity. He looks so delicate- iced with sparkles and so much daintier than Harry- but he’s quick paced and roaringly loud; all about bucking back and yanking Harry’s curls from his skull. The kiss before their mouths get a chance to meet and stutter out groans. Harry works his hand between their bodies to start wanking the other boy and feels drunk on the power of Louis’ neck snapping back and his broken, high pitched keen.  

“The stars Hazza, my stars,” Louis whispers towards the ceiling, and Harry blinks his way into clarity- 

“Huh?” 

Louis rolls his eyes and then lets them close, moves one trembling hand from Harry’s head to his own chest to show Harry. He runs his fingertip between two of the sequined points and Harry knows.  

“Oh.”  

He smirks and rips each of the stars wickedly from Louis sensitive skin. Like a plaster. Louis emits a pleasured pained growl the like Harry has never heard before and Harry lets himself enjoy the entirety of it before he darts forward to sooth Louis with his tongue. He latches onto each pink nipple in turn, lapping at them, sucking the nubs into his mouth. Beneath the left, Harry feels Louis’ heartbeat; feels it’s crescendo just before the boy’s release spurts between them. He comes second later, with a string of swear words for good measure.  

Harry’s not really one for hanging around usually- and the girls usually suggest that he leave, too. Uni dorms and early morning classes thrown around as their reasons. Louis wants to cuddle, though- practically begs Harry to wrap his tattooed arms around his slim chest and be his big spoon. Harry doesn’t argue, not when Louis relaxes like a dream and Harry can watch the reflection of fairy lights playing on the glitter caking his skin. The sparkles are the first layer of him, Harry thinks, and he has this distant urge to wipe them away and find something more. They’re his vintage t-shirts and chelsea boots. 

“Can you make eggs benedict?” Louis asks, quite suddenly, when Harry assumes he’s already fallen asleep.

“I... actually, yeah...” Harry laughs, eyebrow arching. 

“And will you come and see me dance next week, too?” 

“Mhmmm.”

“Be here in the morning, then. I’ve actually already hidden your shoes.” 


End file.
